


double-edged

by nightingalehall (orphan_account)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gen, Knives, Reverse Pines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nightingalehall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s how they always are, the Pines twins: the wrong side of magic, the left edge of danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	double-edged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



> For the prompt: Reverse Falls, Dippica (though any ship or anything will do), “Haven’t you had enough fun already?”

Daggers slam into tarot cards: slices of blurred silver, jabbing into suspended pictures. Every moment is splashed cerulean, and the only sound is the  _thud-thud-thud_  of knives hitting home. Mabel tosses the last card in the air, letting it flutter to its position near her ankle –  _thud._

If the audience had been watching carefully, they would catch Mabel’s eyes widening just a fraction. Her heels drag back, her hand flutters to her throat. They would see a trace of blue, glowing behind her fingertips, as she redirects the knife to stab  _down_.

In the crowd, a small blonde girl leans forward, eyes sweeping across the act. She’s holding a book to her chest, clutching it so tightly that her knuckles have faded white.

And suddenly, there they are again, standing in a slash of brilliant blue against black curtains. The cheering audience thinks, for a second, that a trail of red creeps down Mabel’s stocking – but a blink and a flash of movement later, it’s gone.The twins smile brilliantly: Mabel’s a hard white curve, Dipper’s a sharpened half-grin. They’re barely breathing, arms linked, as the curtains fan down in a whisper. A moment after, Mabel slips fluidly out of his grasp, every movement as familiar as breathing.

“You nicked me,” she hisses. “I had to stand there in front of them, flash-folding the cards, blood everywhere.”

“Don’t be dramatic. It barely showed. You cleaned up fast.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but they both know there’s no excuse for mistakes at this point.

She straightens, and for a second, Dipper can see echoes of sapphire in her glare. Mabel looks like a doll – pointed shoes, bows sitting high in her hair, a delicate brooch pinned at her neck – but when she’s angry, Dipper can already see the smears of red. 

_You hurt me,_ her gaze demands, and for a second, he feels something close to guilt.

He stares back.  _Does it matter?_ The silk cloak he wears seems to curl in, seems to choke.

Mabel breaks the gaze. “Next time,  _you_  can play with the cards. The knives are the fun part, and you’ve been doing them for ages.”

Dipper breathes out, a sigh of relief. “Deal. I’m sorry, I guess.”

He tries to sound as bitter as possible when he reaches into his belt, unsheathing his daggers. When he gives them to Mabel, his hand brushes against his blue stone, dangling from a gold chain. It pulses – warm, like a heartbeat.

Mabel takes the daggers impatiently, and Dipper can already see the hungry gleam in her eyes. His moments with knives are intricate, smooth – with Mabel handling them, everything will have a harsher, sleeker edge.

He’ll have to be quick with the cards, then. At the moment, they are still torn, still on stage.

She starts to leave, slipping backstage. Mabel’s already started with patting down her magic-frizzed hair, and from his angle, Dipper can see the tear in her stockings. He decides not to mention it.

“Also –“ Mabel pivots. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough fun, already? With your endless staring?”

Dipper’s breath catches, and he can feel his pulse pick up.  _God, she noticed, Mabel saw –_

“She was cute,” Mabel says, dryly. “Enormous sweater – I think there were cats, this time. Fashionable.”

He’d found the cats endearing. Each one had been a different color, and Dipper had caught her tracing the pink one on her left sleeve. He’d slash himself down to the bone before he would admit it.

Dipper forces himself to talk. “And?”

Mabel pauses now, her posture relaxing like a panther’s. “And? What are you going to do about it? She’s  _terrified_ of you, Dipper. How well do you think it would go down?”

Angry words rush to his lips struggling to force themselves out, but he stamps down on them – because Mabel’s right.

Dipper always spins his too-sharp knife between his too-quick fingers, and when he looks into the sea of faces, he smiles like a shark. When he finally throws it at Mabel’s perfect house of cards, no one misses the odd, blue sheen.

When he looks at the blonde girl, there’s always a shade of curiosity, a shadow of fear.

His fist curls into his cloak, and the silk ripples through his fingers like water. Mabel grins sharply, and she twirls a dagger in her right hand: a mirror image of Dipper, but her movements are less elegant, more methodical.

“You’d  _break_ her,” Mabel says, as if this were the most obvious fact in the world, “Not gently, either. You’d shatter her.”

Mabel smiles grows wider. Her dark eyes spark, her face twists, and she tosses the dagger impossibly high in the air, letting it land blade-down in the floorboard. It quivers in its place. In a breath, she’s gone.

Dipper stares at where Mabel had been, his vision hazing in a cloud of white. He forces himself to breathe. In silent movements, he slips to the curtain, peeking at what’s left of the audience.

There’s a few people left: shell-shocked audience members, surrounded by flying words and gestures, but that’s always to be expected. And, as always – the blonde girl, her hair pulled back, her hand tucked under her chin as she stares down at the book. Dipper has no idea what it is – why she always has it, why it intrigues her so much. 

She looks up, suddenly, as if she’s felt his gaze. Her fingers worry at the bottom of her sweater, right over the green cat. Dipper lets the curtain fall from his fingers, back into place.

Mabel’s right, of course, as she always is. The girl in the audience looks too small, too delicate – if he gets to her, she’ll fall apart. 


End file.
